


Shut-Eye

by cosidrix



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Behavior, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, M/M, Slice of Life, Unresolved Romantic Tension, does it count as a character/interaction study? boy i sure hope so, kinda? no real overarching plot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:26:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22690198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosidrix/pseuds/cosidrix
Summary: Everyone spends so much time at the Magnus Institute that it's difficult to get any rest.A collection of drabbles centered around the Archivist and his friends, and about how much they fall asleep at the Institute.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 3
Kudos: 98





	Shut-Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Sleep is important. The aboriginal people of Australia believed that the spirit of life came from sleeping, specifically from that of dreaming. And it goes without saying that it is deeply important for physical and emotional health. 
> 
> Not only just that, but it's vulnerable. Falling asleep around other people is an intimate act of trust, isn't it?

“Jon. Jon. C’mon.  _ Jonathan _ .”

Jon blinked slowly, grimacing as his senses drifted back in from unconsciousness and he became aware of the hand gently prodding at his shoulder. His cheek was firmly planted against a now-drooled-upon legal pad (not a huge loss, his illegible notes were likely never going to be put to use anyway) and his neck ached as he attempted to remedy this.

“The time?” He murmured, rubbing at his eyes as he stiffly sat up in his desk chair.

There was a brief rustling as Sasha pulled her phone out of her inside coat pocket, “Quarter to eleven.”

“Oh, that’s not-” Jon cut himself off with a yawn.

“Not so _bad?_ Come on, Jon.” Tim’s eye roll was present in his voice, though he stood a way’s off in the doorway. “What were you going to do, sleep here?”  
“I don’t know.” He reached for a water bottle from the collection he had situated on the side of his already ridiculously cluttered workspace. “I might’ve.” 

Not without kindness, Sasha replied, “Would it kill you to act like you don’t eat, sleep, and breathe The Archives just for a night?”

Jon considered this. “Probably. Wouldn’t want to find out the hard way, I suppose.”

“Well,” Sasha sighed, “Tim and I somehow successfully roped  _ Martin  _ into coming out with us for drinks tonight. We figured with luck like that we should either buy a lottery ticket or try to get you to join as well.”

“You should have gotten the ticket first. I’ve still got plenty on my plate for my evening.”

Tim clicked his tongue indignantly, unsurprised by the response. Sasha turned slightly to shoot him a glare. Returning her attention to Jon, she said, “It can wait for tomorrow, can’t it? Don’t make us use our annual one free pass to force you to come out with us so early in the year.”

Jon swiveled around in his chair. He could now see that Tim wasn’t alone in the doorway, but joined by a very hopeful looking Martin. Jon’s interest in this outing had officially dwindled into nothing. 

“Next time.”

“Jon.” Sasha pleaded. 

“ _ Next time.” _

“ _ Jon _ .”

“Oh, would you leave the poor bastard alone?” Tim detached himself from leaning against the door jamb and sauntered off into the hallway, “If he wants to spend the evening making love to his tape recorder then let him! I’ll meet you at the bar!”

Sasha chuckled and looked back to Jon with a melancholy smile. She held out her hand-- with her pinky finger extended-- and raised her eyebrows. “Promise me next time? We miss hanging out with you in a place that isn’t… deeply haunted and objectively terrible to be.”

“I might say the same thing about the bars you and Tim frequent, but sure.” He hooked his pinky with hers and managed a tired smile. “If it eases your mind, I’ll promise to leave before midnight.”

“Don’t bother,” She pushed a long lock of straight, black hair out of her face. “The Institute is on the way back to my place. I’ll still see your car.”  
“Fair enough. Promise rescinded then. Would it help if I went out and parked out back instead? To aid the, uh, suspension of disbelief?”

“How about you just give me a tenner and I’ll get us both a big cup of coffee bright and early on my way in tomorrow?”

Jon reached for his wallet in defeat. “We’ll both need one.”

Stuffing the bill into her coat pocket, Sasha nodded, “Sure will. Have a good night, Jon.”

“You too. And you, Martin. Enjoy yourself.” Generously, he gave him a nod.

Martin smiled ridiculously wide, “Oh, thank you! You too!”

With a wink, Sasha saw herself out with Martin close behind. The door was shut tight and Jon sagged in the dim luminescence of his measly desk lamp. It provided him just barely enough to comfortably look over the statements, but the rest of the room was lost to the darkness. It wasn’t really a bother, seeing as it’s not like he would need anything that wasn’t already laid out before him. 

He tossed the dampened legal pad off to the side and clicked his pen idly while retrieving a fresh one from the desk drawer. A stack of statements, the recorder, and three empty backup tapes were cluttered atop each other in the pool of yellow light that his lamp created in the middle of the space. It was difficult to not feel so alone, so Jon did not even try. 

He sighed, and pressed  _ record _ .

* * *

  
  


This couldn’t be more awkward. This was such an indescribably painful experience that Jon honestly might have thought about quitting, or at least firing Martin, if only to ensure this never happened again. 

He cleared his throat and fixed his gaze at the floor. “Martin.”

Nothing. 

“Martin,” He repeated, slightly louder. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before gazing tiredly at the ceiling. Or anywhere that wasn’t Martin’s slumbering body, curled up and scantily clad in baby blue briefs that were, perhaps, half a size too tight. Jon assumed (prayed) that he at least had a shirt on, though it was impossible to tell due to a thick quilt wrapped around his torso and head. Only small tufts of tawny hair poked forward and framed his soft, sleeping face. 

“Martin. Martin, I need you to please wake up.  _ Martin. _ ”  _ Fine. _ He stepped closer and pushed the couch slightly. When he did not wake up at the first unsteady wobble, Jon increased the strength behind his shaking until he heard Martin finally make a sleepy, inquisitive noise. 

At which point, Jon jumped back as though he had woken a vengeful beast, ready to hightail it at any moment. 

Martin fought for a moment to keep his eyes open, rubbing at his face with quilt-sheathed hands. Jon figured this was a rather private moment, so he stared straight ahead at the suddenly intriguing file cabinets. 

In his peripheral vision, he saw Martin freeze up in realization of his surroundings. 

“Oh. Oh my god,  _ oh my god,  _ I’m so--”

“That’s-- that’s alright, Martin.”  
“I’m so, _so_ sorry, Jon, uh--” Martin struggled to cover himself with the quilt that wasn’t quite big enough for his size. At least he was, in fact, wearing a shirt. “I-- I, I must’ve overslept, I’m-- _Christ,_ I’m sorry!”

“Martin, Martin, it’s-- it’s only eight o’clock, it’s alright, I… I got here early and I just, um,” Jon cleared his throat, “I figured it was best to wake you before everyone else got here for the day.”

Martin clumsily tugged on yesterday’s blue jeans and ran his hands through his hair, which really only made the bedhead worse, but Jon wasn’t going to mention it. “So sorry, again.”

“It’s  _ really  _ fine, Martin. I just… needed my office space. It likely would’ve only been more traumatic if you had woken to find me in the room going about my work, right?” Jon had never been great at jokes, and the total lack of amusement on Martin’s face proved that point. 

“Right. Yeah. Yes.” Martin coughed, his voice hoarse from sleep. “Um, I’ll be out of your way then. I’m sorry, just, um. Again.” 

“Martin, I offered you the space. Don’t apologize for using it.” At risk of coming off as anything but terse, Jon amended, “Just, ah, get yourself cleaned up and we’ll start the day.”

“Yes. Right.” 

“Right.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Right."

"...Right."

* * *

The Archival assistants had been awarded a single (though expansive) room for their work, with several desks all pushed awkwardly together in the center, hallways leading in and out to other parts of the Institute like sprawling legs. It felt rather empty sometimes, having only three of the spaces in use, and begged the question what it might have been like in its heyday. But for now, merely Sasha, Tim, and Martin triangulated themselves among them, with Jon passing through every so often. 

The great thing about the job was that they were, honestly, ridiculously overstaffed. Once or twice a day, Jon shot a few statements and ideas he might have for leads about them, but that really only bought a few hours worth of busy work. Granted, Tim’s schedule used to be a lot clearer before he took over the online research due to Sasha’s mysterious new inability to do so, but it was still surprisingly empty for how decently they were paid. With Elias and Jon tucked away in their respective offices, there wasn’t a whole lot of authority to keep the assistants on task throughout the day. This resulted in games of tic-tac-toe, taking two hour lunch breaks, and a shocking amount of truth or dare. Once, they’d gotten through a whole game of Monopoly uninterrupted. 

Approaching from the hallway that housed Jon’s office, Martin commented, “You know, I don’t think Jon should keep  _ that  _ many files in his office. It’s kind of a fire hazard--”

Tim spun around in his desk chair and held a finger up to his lips with his eyebrows raised, “ _ Shh! _ ”

Martin stopped dead in his tracks, hugging the statements he’d been given to his chest worriedly. “Wh--  _ what? _ ”

Tim pointed at Sasha. Or rather, the top of Sasha’s head, because that was all that was visible with her face pressed firmly against the lid of her closed laptop, fast asleep. 

“How long’s she been out for?” Martin whispered, quietly walking closer. 

“Dunno,” Tim whispered back, “I was busy doing this.” He pulled back his hoodie sleeve to reveal the worm scars on his arm. The raised, near perfectly circular scars were now adorned with various little faces, ranging from simple smile-emoticon-esque expressions to shock and horror. 

“Hm. Well, they say you’re never too late to try your hand at becoming an artist, I suppose.”

“Right? Anyway, I was behind my computer, so I didn’t even notice till I sat up to show her my masterpieces. Now, I’ve just been trying to come up with a way to fuck with her.”

“ _ Tim _ .”

“ _ What?  _ We have to.”

Martin shook his head, “We really, really don’t.”

Tim looked to Martin's hands. “Give me your statements.”

“No. These are mine, Jon gave them to me.”

“It’s not a purity ring, now, is it? Hand them over.”

Martin scowled and reluctantly obliged. “What are you going to do?”

Tim stood, squeezing between Martin and his desk, and slowly inched his way over to Sasha’s sleeping form. He stood behind her, narrowing his eyes, and placed a single file containing a mere two or three pages on top of her head. She made no indication that she could feel it, the tight curls providing ample cushioning. 

“Tim, come on.”

“Martin, hand me that cup.”

“Which-- _no!_ No.”  
“Martin.”

“Timothy Stoker.”  
“Give me the cup. Don’t be like this.”

“You’re so--” Martin retrieved the paper Dixie cup (an Institute staple from the water cooler in the break room) off of Tim’s desk and handed it to him with a deep sigh.

With an intense level of focus, Tim set the cup on top of the file and stepped back quickly, hands up in the air. They both held their breath until it was clear she had not yet awoken.

“Give me the--”

“Tim.”

“Give me that pencil. Wait, no, you can’t put things on top of that. Um…” Tim looked around enthusiastically, bearing a childish grin. “Oh, y’know what, here.” He set another file on top of the cup, wincing as he struggled to make it balance without jostling their sleepy subject. Martin, all too aware of the level of wrath they’d face once Sasha awoke and found out they’d been doing this to her, worse a matching, deeply nervous expression.

The sound of a throat clearing pierced the perfect silence. 

Martin and Tim both jumped, effectively knocking the tower off of Sasha’s head. The papers fell to the floor and scattered, which only added to the contempt on Jon’s face. Like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, Martin and Tim both stared at him apologetically. 

“You know,” Jon said, not caring to whisper as Sasha was beginning to blearily sit up, “I give you statements to make good use of, not to  _ play  _ with.”

“It was Tim’s idea!” Martin blurted. However, upon realizing how juvenile this sounded, he quickly shut his mouth and looked away. 

“Of course it was,” Jon replied flatly. “Now, would you _please_ all get to work?”

* * *

For all the charisma it might take to run a host a YouTube show, Melanie King would never dream of calling herself particularly adept at getting people to like her. Not one-on-one at least. This was made clear by the cold shoulder she had received from the rest of the Archival assistants over the past week and a half of her employment at the Institute. It wasn’t that they were necessarily mean to her, just  _ intensely  _ standoffish. It was like high school all over again, with Tim and Martin cliqued up and the rest of the Institute’s departments being too wrapped up in their own work to pay much mind to the politics of the Archives.

Feeling unwanted made it incredibly difficult to ask for help, but the minuscule amount of training she had received simply wasn’t cutting it. She much prefered going to Tim for help versus Martin, because the former didn’t seem so aggravated as he just appeared to be… bored. Disinterested. But she’d take that over the sharp edges of Martin’s words any day. 

Unfortunately, that safe haven was nowhere to be found. Which left Melanie with no choice but to approach Martin’s desk as quietly as she could, clutching a statement, trying very hard not to look like a kicked puppy. 

Martin briefly glanced at her from his laptop. “Did you need something?”  
“I was, uh, looking for Tim. Have you seen him anywhere?”  
Martin narrowed his eyes at his screen before looking up and glancing around. “Actually, now that you mention it… no. That’s strange, I-- I haven’t seen him in awhile.”

“Oh, alright. Thank you anyway, I’ll go see if I can track him down.” Melanie turned on her heel quickly and started to hurry off in the opposite direction.

“Melanie, wait!” Martin called after her. She tensed for a second, expecting some sort of reprimand, before turning back around. “You made a good call about that, um, what was it-- that case you gave me. Where you mentioned that aunt might have something? I got in touch with her and she gave me a lot of good information about where her nephew might have moved to. Thank you for your help on that.”

Melanie was momentarily stunned by this display of genuine gratitude. “Of course. Yeah, you’re welcome. Happy to help.”

Martin nodded once and returned his attention to the computer. Unwilling to break this small but delightful moment of amicability, she smiled to herself and continued on her way in the direction of Artifact Storage. 

The Archival department worked closely with Storage, so it was situated just a hallway’s length away from where she spent all day. The people there were friendly enough, clearly unaware of the quarrels Melanie faced with her own fellow assistants. Sherry, a slight woman who had seen better days, manned the desk that blocked the entrance to the storage area itself. She looked up at Melanie over the top of her bifocals.

“Hello, Miss King,” Sherry yawned, “What are you in search of today?”  
Melanie set her statement down on the desk. “Actually, I was looking for Tim, but he’s nowhere to be found. I figured I might as well come looking for this myself.”  
“Tim Stoker? He just went into Storage about an hour ago. I’d go look for him myself but I was about to take my lunch break.”

“Oh! Really? If it’s alright with you, could I go in and find him?” Melanie asked earnestly.

“Lunch break, dear,” Sherry shrugged, standing up, “You could rob the place blind in the next hour and it wouldn’t bother me any.”

Artifact Storage was dimly lit with specialized bulbs to prevent any damage that might occur to the more fragile items. It also branched off into several smaller rooms, grouping the more dangerous ones together where they could effectively be kept under lock and key. It was a small maze, with dusty metal shelves housing books, statues, paintings, and anything else under the sun. Some were wrapped in tissue paper, some were covered in canvas and secured with a thick rope, and some were kept in bulletproof safes of various size and shape. Melanie tried not to look at any of them straight-on, as they all amounted to the same uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

Between two ceiling high bookshelves, shielded from even the dullest of light, there was a chaise lounge. It once must have been a dreadful bright orange, but time had withered it away to a much more stomachable hue. Atop it, unsurprisingly, was one very unconscious Tim Stoker.

He looked calmer than Melanie had ever seen him while awake. She could almost imagine him smiling, though she’d never seen such a thing. He stretched out languidly across the piece of furniture in a way that seemed almost uncomfortable, a pair of clunky noise-canceling headphones and a sleep mask over his eyes. 

Slowly, Melanie backed away. Tim clearly needed all the rest he could get, and she wondered what had happened to the assistants that led them to be so tired all the time. Of course, there were better places to rest than on an artifact, which was invariably haunted, but it was likely enough that this wasn’t the first time Tim had done this and he’d survived up until this point, so it wasn’t really any of Melanie’s business. She could only hope that this job didn’t take as much out of her as it did the rest of her coworkers. 

* * *

  
  


Living in the Institute wasn’t ideal, that was for sure, but Basira had a routine. She liked routines. Order. Organization. Lists. 

At the top of her morning list was getting the coffee started. Being an early riser was one of many differences between her and her unlikely companion, and said companion would hardly get out of bed without being handed something with the promise of caffeine. After getting the pot going and unlocking the many, many locks securing the front door of the Institute, she excused herself to the bathroom to brush her teeth, secure her hair back in her scarf, and give herself a once over (in that order, as always). 

She’d lost weight.

She hadn’t meant to. But, she supposed, living a life of constant fear for your life was certainly an underlying factor. She turned away from the mirror.  _ Bigger fish to fry. _

The Institute, in truth, made for peaceful mornings. They had all the grandeur of the building to themselves until nine or ten o’clock, when the first employees would turn up. No one batted an eye at the new occupants, all privy to at least some degree of why it was necessary. And if it meant there was always a fresh brew waiting for them when they arrived-- well, who could complain? 

On her way back to the office-space-turned-shared-bedroom, Basira collected two mugs of coffee from the break room. One black, one with just the right amount of sugar that wouldn’t cause Melanie to gag. She didn’t even pay it much attention to it anymore, the action was so familiar to her. She yawned into the bend of her arm and carried the cups back, her slippers scuffing along the creaky wooden floors. 

“Knock, knock,” She announced as she reentered. The blanketed mass across the room made a Melanie-esque pained groan. “Good morning. Time to get up.”

Something that almost sounded like  _ what time is it?  _ was murmured from beneath layers of quilts. Basira stood over her stoically. “Eight-thirty. Coffee.”

Dramatically, Melanie peeked out, looking just miserable. She accepted the mug and sipped at it gingerly. “Thanks.”

“Mhm,” Basira nodded and set her own drink down on the plastic bin, full of yellowed, official Institute stationary that hadn’t been touched in decades, which doubled as her makeshift nightstand. “Did you sleep well?”

Melanie shot her a glare. “Do I ever?”

“Well, your snoring last night certainly led me to believe so.”

No comment came from Melanie, who was guzzling down her coffee like someone was going to come and steal it from her. 

Basira kicked off her slippers and stepped into her sneakers. “I was going to visit Jon this morning. Interested in coming with?”

“Pass. I’m full up on misery.”

“Suit yourself. He told me he misses you though.”  
“Oh, did he?”

Basira chuckled, “Sure did. I’ll be back from the hospital in an hour or so. At least try to look presentable before everyone gets here for the day?”

Setting her mug down on her own bin-slash-nightstand, Melanie gave Basira a half-hearted salute and rolled back over, pulling her blanket over her head. From beneath it, she yawned, “Aye, aye, captain.”

* * *

_ Creature of habit _ , Martin caught himself thinking when he peeked into Jon’s office. 

There was again, as he had been so many times before, asleep at his desk. Face pressed against a stack of papers of various colors and sizes, pen still in hand. This happened sometimes when he read through too many statements in a row. It drained him just as much as it nourished him sometimes. That’s why Martin would often stop by with the excuse of tea or some mindless question that he already knew the answer to.

Or, that’s why he  _ used  _ to. 

Back when he was allowed to. 

He could almost feel the eyes at the back of his head now, though that wasn’t anything new. Peter wouldn’t like this. His desire-- his  _ need--  _ to check in on Jon was being worked out of him, but perhaps not quickly enough. It lingered, keeping Martin standing in the doorway. 

Jon’s shoulders were tense as stone while he slept. His fingers curled around the pen until his knuckles were white as snow. His eyes squeezed tight, relaxed, squeezed tight again. Rapid, stuttered breathing. 

Martin knew. Everyone had nightmares those days. Their minds had collected a myriad of memories from which they could draw the most loathsome extrapolations, or simply relive the truth in all its horrific glory. Real life did most of the work when it came to nightmares.

Martin could imagine Peter’s voice in his mind now.  _ Don’t. _

He stepped forward and stopped abruptly as though he had walked right into a wall. He shut his eyes tight. He shouldn’t be doing this.  _ Don’t.  _

But it was Jon. 

_ Don’t do this,  _ Martin thought.  _ Leave. Just go. It isn’t your business.  _

But it was Jon. 

Martin stepped as lightly as possible, approaching Jon from the side. Fearing a violent awakening, he removed the pencil from his hand with minimal coaxing. Martin bit his lip and touched Jon’s shoulder. At the slightest brush of Martin’s fingertips, Jon sprung up. His bloodshot eyes flew wide and he blinked quickly to focus them on Martin’s face. 

“Oh, Martin. It’s you.”

Martin swallowed, “You looked like you were, uh-- sorry. For waking you.”

“No, that’s quite alright.” Jon glanced around the room, still struggling to get his bearings. “Actually, um, now that you’re here, I--”

“I can’t talk, sorry,” Martin blurted out quickly before Jon could get any further, “Ah, Peter has me doing something… important, right now, actually. I was just passing by.”  
Jon blinked up at him. Concern colored his gaze, but was swiftly replaced by a familiar resignation. He leaned back in his chair. “Right. I won’t keep you.”

Martin nodded and hurried out of the room, arms hanging stiffly by his sides and bottom lip quivering just slightly. He anticipated the talk he would receive from Peter later.  _ Mistakes like that could destroy all our progress, Martin. Besides, do you really think he cares?  _

But, to Martin, it was not about reciprocity. It never had been. Of course Jon didn’t care, and Martin was long past needing him to. He did not care for Jon because he thought he would ever get anything back, especially not now that the Lonely had taken root within him, and the gulf between them grew wider with every passing day. He cared for Jon because it was in his nature to care. And he had not been stripped of that just yet. 

He rounded the corner into one of the many wide hallways that the Institute housed and, sure enough, a very grim looking Peter Lukas was waiting at the end of it. Martin slowly came to a halt and said nothing. He simply stared at the floor. 

“Martin,” Peter sighed, “We talked about this.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Why doesn't Daisy have one?" Hilarious that you think she would EVER fall asleep around anyone. Alice "Daisy" "Sleeps with one eye open and a gun under her pillow" Tonner. Ha. 
> 
> I also legitimately forgot to make one for her until opening up ao3 to post this. But we'll go with what I said instead.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr for more antics. @persona4 is my main, @sithgender is where most of my Magnus Archives stuff ends up. Comments and kudos always appreciated!


End file.
